


A Time for Comfort...

by MikaLero



Series: For All Things, an Appointed Time... [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Cloud Ruler Temple, Comfort/Angst, Cyrodiil, Eventual Smut, F/M, Night Terrors, Nightmares, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Requited Love, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-03-02 12:10:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2811500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MikaLero/pseuds/MikaLero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lysa Silver-Hawk returns from her mission to retrieve a Daedric artifact, that Martin might be able to open a portal into Camoran's Paradise.  His quiet strength, grace, and humility had always drawn her to him - the unusual circumstances of the Crisis notwithstanding.  That strength however, has begun to wither quickly under the heavy burden of expectation, a traumatic past, and the insidious evil of the Mysterium Xarxes.  </p>
<p>When Martin begins to crack, Lysa puts aside any lingering hesitation about the nature of her feelings to comfort and support him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nightmares and Songs

**Author's Note:**

> The Elder Scrolls and all characters and content are copyrighted to Bethesda.
> 
> Lyrics to 'The Last of the Giants' are copyrighted to George R.R. Martin. Please refer to Karliene Reynolds' rendition/arrangement on YouTube for the 'version' Lysa sings. Seriously, go support this amazing artist. She rocks.

_Evening Star (December), 3E 433 - Aftermath of "Blood of the Daedra"_

_(~4 months after the death of Uriel VII on 27th of Last Seed (August))_

 

  Harsh, bitter cold winds blew down from the Jerall Mountains, whistling and howling like a pack of banshees in the night. Its wailing could be heard even in the communal barracks beneath the Western Wing of Cloud Ruler Temple. Lysa dipped her washrag into a basin of lukewarm water, wringing it out and scrubbing away at a particularly stubborn spread of dirt and smears of tacky, dried Dremora blood on her neck. Kicking aside her shed, dirty small clothes over towards her armor, she frowned, tilting her head to the side and pulling her red hair out of the way - trying to scrub even harder over her left shoulder blade.  It didn't matter how many times she ventured into the realms of Oblivion, whether it was to combat the forces of Dagon, or free trapped souls at the bidding of Peryite, dealing with daedric filth left behind a clinging stink she couldn't stand.   
  
Having scrubbed away as much of her skin as she could without causing herself to bleed, Lysa grabbed and pulled a man's shirt over her head.  The sleeves were a little long, the threads a bit worn, and the hem reached down nearly to her knees.  There were few female Blades as a general fact, which generally dictated no real difference in provisions or accommodations at the Temple - it was considered a thing of note that she, Caroline, and Jena had a corner of the barracks screened off for a measure of privacy while dressing or washing. At all other times, they ate, slept, and trained alongside their male counterparts.  It didn't bother her one whit, though she had been a touch surprised at the casual, off-handed nature with which the rest of the Blades appeared to handle the subject.  She'd always been under the impression the southern denizens of Tamriel were a great deal more... _prudish_.  
  
She sighed, chewing on her bottom lip.  She felt torn - worried and fretting. Jauffre had met her upon her return to the Temple, long after the sun had set beneath the horizon. As it was, dawn was only a handful of hours away. He had taken Spellbreaker from her on Martin's behalf to store in his chambers until morning.  Martin had apparently passed out from exhaustion slaving over the _Xarxes_  again and been put to bed before her return.  His self-care had been lacking, particularly in terms of sleep, even before her retrieval of that wicked book.  The problem had only gotten worse in her absence.  
  
 _'I fear what that evil book will do to him,' Jauffre confided to her as they walked together up the courtyard steps, the lines of age in his face all the more pronounced as he frowned. 'He does nothing but pour over it all day and into the night. He must be cajoled into eating, sleeping, anything at all that doesn't relate to its study.'_  
  
She was so lost in thought, she walked face-first into her armored Knight-Sister Jena while rounding the corner of the dressing screen to get to her bedroll.  
  
"Oi, watch it now," the Imperial woman exclaimed, though her smile and steadying hands on Lysa's shoulders clearly indicated a lack of annoyance or ill-will.  "I heard you were back. Are you alright?" she asked, brows knitting together a stitch when she got a good look at the other woman's expression.  
  
Lysa smiled weakly, her cheeks a touch red. Had she lost all sense, wandering about like an absent minded fool?  
  
"I am fine, Jena, thank you. Tired. Worried. How is Martin, truly?"  
  
Jena's smile faltered, and she hesitated in answering. "He would do well to take better care of himself," she said at last.  "I'm going to go relieve Baurus for a few hours..." she added quickly, seeing her friend's crestfallen face. Martin wasn't the only one who needed sufficient rest, and she knew Lysa would have none tonight if her mind remained so unsettled. "Come with me?"  
  
Lysa let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding and nodded quickly.  She didn't want to wake Martin and disrupt what precious little sleep he was getting, but Jena - who was quickly becoming one of her best friends - appeared to know exactly what would have the best chance of putting her mind at ease.  In the back of her mind, Lysa also offered up a silent prayer of gratitude that the other woman did not insist on such juvenile teasing as Baurus when her eyes followed Martin too long and wistfully, or her overly protective attitude sharpened her voice and put an edge to her words in conversation.  Her un-admitted feelings for the heir to the Ruby Throne were an open secret in the Temple - obvious and apparent to all except the couple in question.  
  
The two women walked arm in arm, talking to each other in hushed whispers.  By the time they reached the stairs that lead up to the Emperor's quarters, Jena had succeeded in making her friend genuinely smile, and even laugh!  
  
Halfway up the stairs, they heard a sudden, piercing bout of screaming.  Lysa froze, her face a picture of mute horror as she recognized it as Martin's all but immediately.  But just as quickly, she recognized something else.  Whether afflicting a grown man, or a young girl like her sister with a foot still in childhood, the soul-crushing fear of crippling night terrors was distinct and universal.  Jena had started first in a sprint up the rest of the stairs, but Lysa quickly recovered from the initial shock and overtook her.  
  
When she reached the top, the door to his room was already open.  Continuing inside, Lysa saw Baurus struggling with Martin, having hold of his wrists with large hands.  Martin was covered with sweat, eyes fluttering and expression contorted as his mind was still deep in the clutches of his nightmare.  Rushing forward, she took the Redguard by the shoulders and pulled him back fiercely.  "Stop. You're making it worse." she barked at him.  
  
Her fellow Blade stumbled back, looking startled as he had not heard her behind him.  "What in the...?"   
  
"Trust me," she said as she stepped past him. Lysa took hold of one of Martin's hands and pulled him towards a sitting position.  Quickly, she swung herself behind him, sitting on her knees.  Wrapping her arms around him, she pressed herself against his back and squeezed, pinning his arms to his chest.  
  
Martin moaned loudly, pitiful and struggling.  His thrashing ticked upward in intensity for a few brief moments, and Lysa thought she might lose her grip.  He was not a weak man - hadn't been at least.  How depleted had his strength become that she could restrain him so?  
  
"Martin... Martin, it's alright.  It's alright, it's just a dream, it isn't real," she whispered hurriedly in his ear.  Over and over again she repeated herself, murmuring an endless stream of comforts.  "You're safe, I promise.  Martin, it's alright."  
  
His struggling began to slow and soon came to a stop.  His eyes remained closed and his chest heaved with each half-crying breath, and his entire body shaking. Lysa cast her hazel eyes over to Baurus.  Jena was beside him, and by now the sounds of Martin's screaming had woken and begun to draw what felt like half the Temple. She did not see Jauffre yet, but had little doubt that he would be there, and in _very_ short order.  
  
"Cold water, and a clean cloth," she stated very simply in a low voice. Jena turned on her heel quickly, pushing her way past the gathering Blades in the stairwell. Baurus lingered, hesitating until Lysa gave him a pointed stare and mouthed 'Go.'  Such things as this were difficult enough to calm in the most quiet of circumstances, and would be impossible with half the Order crowded into the room staring.  
  
Once the door was shut and they were for the time alone, she gave a shuddering sigh and buried her nose in Martin's hair.  Keeping one arm firmly around him, she briefly reached up with her other hand to brush away the hair stuck to the side of his face. She blinked furiously to keep the tears in her eyes from spilling out onto her cheeks and began to sing a wordless melody.  Her voice grew in timbre and strength, the tune dusky and soothing.  It evoked a feeling of cold snows, tall trees, and the sharp, ashy smell of burning pine.  
  
As his mind began to slowly work its way back to the land of the wakeful, Martin's hands found her arm and held onto her like a drowning man would a raft. She winced a little at how tightly his fingers dug into her forearm, but kept singing. As she felt him begin to relax a little, the words started to come.    
  
[ _Oh, I am the last of the Giants..._](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w4cqcinpbvw)  
 _My people are gone from the earth...  
_ _The last of the great, mountain Giants..._  
 _Who ruled all the world at my birth..._  
  
Lysa continued to stroke his hair, and with a well-practiced flow, eased into a very gentle rocking back and forth.  
  
 _Oh I am the Last of the Giants..._  
 _Learn well the words of my song..._  
 _Or when I am gone, all our singing will fade..._  
 _And silence will last on and on..._  
  
By the time the rest of the song was done, and her voice dropped back to a hummed whisper, Martin's breathing had evened out.  His hands still bore light tremors, but if for no other reason except sheer exhaustion, his body had relaxed and stilled.  Half-lidded blue eyes looked off wearily at some unseen thing, and he took a deeper breath before attempting to speak.    
  
"Lysa..." he said, voice ragged and hoarse, half statement, half question.  
  
She lifted her cheek from where she'd laid it against the back of his head and pressed a kiss there instead.  To Oblivion with inhibition and girlish hesitation. Blunt and to the point described most Nords, and she would not be any different.    
  
"Yes... my love?" she answered back, calmly and evenly, brushing her fingers through his hair.  
  
There was a pause, and Lysa felt her own heart might leap out of her throat. With some reluctance, she unwrapped her arms, withdrawing them until her hands rested on the sides of his shoulders.  Martin's hands loosened to allow the movement, but let his fingers drag across her arm as if he didn't quite want to let her go.  Drawing a breath, he was about to speak when there was a light rap on the door. Lysa's eyes narrowed peevishly, but when the intruder turned out to be the Grandmaster, carrying the basin of water and folded cloth she'd asked for, she bit her tongue.  
  
Jauffre set the basin on a small bench off to the side of Martin's bed, dipping and wringing out the cloth before handing it off to Lysa and taking a seat. She lifted the cool rag to Martin's forehead, which he weakly attempted to brush away  and sit up further. Pursing her lips, Lysa took a firmer hold of his shoulders and pulled him insistently back against her.  
  
The reluctance of the other Blades to... _manhandle_  their Emperor, while understandable, had in Lysa's mind been the largest part of what had allowed him to slip as far into the depths of utter self-neglect as he had. As such, if dogging his every step and hounding him like a retreating combatant was what it was going to take to ensure he didn't dig himself into an early grave, then by Talos, she had no qualms about personally seeing it done.  
  
Martin's blue eyes cut sideways with mild, short lived annoyance in the direction of her face, though he couldn't crane his neck that far around. She had always been forward and direct with him, and more often than not he found it a refreshing comfort. When the cool cloth was pressed to his overheated forehead as she began to wipe the sweat from his face, he closed his eyes and gave a small, contented sigh.    
  
Jauffre watched closely, his sharp, studious gaze fixed _very_ intently on both of them as certain wheels in the back of his mind began turning. Beginning to feel a nervous flush in her cheeks, Lysa was hesitant to look up from Martin.  To her relief, after another moment, the Grandmaster spoke.    
  
"Are you alright, sire?"  
  
"Mmmmmhm," Martin answered, eyes still closed, turning his head to the side to let Lysa run the cloth down his neck.  
  
The corners of the older man's mouth turned upwards just slightly. He took the washcloth from the pale, flame-haired Nord when she handed it to him and set it to the side. Clearing his throat to get her attention, his expression was again serious, but _not_  displeased.  "Would you come and see me before you retire, Lysa?  I would speak with you."  
  
She opened her mouth to reply, but was cut off by Martin placing a possessive hand on her knee at his side.  Opening his eyes, he looked up at Jauffre.  "Can it wait?" he asked in a plain, pointed tone. "I'd rather have her here for now if you don't mind, my friend."  
  
Lysa could have sworn she saw something akin to a _twinkle_  in the Grandmaster's eyes, though his expression itself did not betray a reaction one way or the other. "Of course sire," he said with a deferential bow of the head.  "Captain Steffan and Jena will be stationed outside if you need anything."  
  
After the door clicked shut behind him, Martin sat up a bit and gestured for her to shift.  "You can't be comfortable like that." he mumbled. Lysa didn't bother protesting because at that point, he was correct.  Moving to lay beside, rather than sit behind him, she groaned quietly as she stretched out her stiff legs. He laid back, rolling over onto his own side to face her. His eyes were searching as they locked with hers - questioning and uncertain.  
  
Despite the loud pounding of her heartbeat in her ears, Lysa pushed inclinations towards hesitancy aside and gave him a kiss. Martin's breath hitched briefly. This woman was ever a source of unending and unpredictable revelation for him. He returned her kiss, his hand moving to cup the back of her neck and pull her closer.  It was slow, tender, and exploratory. When their lips finally parted, it was Martin's turn to encircle her with his arms and tuck her head against his chest.  
  
After a period of silence, only gentle and innocent touches passing between them, he murmured in her ear.  
  
"Would you sing for me again, my dear?"  
  
Lysa smiled broadly, giving a soft chuckle.  A request she was more then happy to oblige.

\-------------

Commissioned Illustration for this story can be found on the DeviantArt posting here: [A Time for Comfort...](http://mikalero.deviantart.com/art/A-Time-for-Comfort-Martin-x-Lysa-494127467)


	2. Old Life in the Jerall Mountains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Winter Holidays contest on a DA fan group. Lysa returns from a mission to help the Countess of Bruma's guardsmen close a minor Oblivion Gate just in time to celebrate the last night of the old year.

_31st of Evening Star (December), 3E 433_

    Winter had come in earnest now to County Bruma, and Lysa found she could not be more pleased. Cold, and flesh rending blasts of wind and snow were in her blood, and that blood sang with delight when she set out on her (obscenely) early morning journey back to Cloud Ruler Temple.  The Countess Carvain had been all pretentious courtesies and highborn manners, but sincere in her gratitude for Lysa’s help in closing the Oblivion Gate outside of the city’s walls.  It was only with great reluctance that she had agreed to take the Countess’ guardsmen with her, and only because she herself had not yet entirely recovered from her efforts at providing all Martin’s wards and shields for several days during his study of the _Xarxes_.  

Her bright red hair, bound up in a circlet of braids around her head, was veiled with a fine dusting of snow as she dismounted her horse just outside of the stables in the courtyard.  She saw one of the other Blades approaching out of the corner of her eye and smiled.  With as easily as the figure moved through the snow, Lysa knew it had to be Roliand - the only other Nord present at Cloud Ruler. Their brothers and sisters in arms were undaunted in their regular rounds and duties, but many bore the weather less gracefully than others.  She smiled broadly and turned towards him as he approached.  

“Well met kinswoman,” he exclaimed as they clasped sword arms in greeting.  “Your return has been awaited most anxiously,” he continued, a teasing smile and an arched brow turning Lysa’s thoughts to Martin.  

If Roliand noticed the passing falter in her smile, he ignored it.  When Jauffre had come to her in private a number of days before to inform her of the plea from Bruma’s guard and Countess, she had set out immediately without time taken to see Martin first, or say goodbye.  There had been tension between them for a variety of reasons, none of which she could lay at his feet - only at those of unflinching, uncontrollable and unforgiving circumstances, or her own insecurities and doubts.  Beyond that, she knew he would have been against her going in the strongest of terms, and having set her will against his once already, she had no desire whatsoever to repeat the experience.

Her cheeks were pink and ruddy, though that was more from the cold than anything else. Yes, most definitely from the cold. Stroking her horse’s neck, she handed over the mare’s reins to her friend and vigorously rubbed her hands together.  “Do you know if Martin has yet settled into his nest for the day?”

Roliand tossed his head back and laughed.  All the other Blades may have thought such words were an apt description of the Great Hall table space Martin had commandeered for his studious work, but she was the only one with enough gall to call it such out loud - even before the Emperor had taken her to bed. “ _Nei_ , Shield-Sister, I do not. Though it is early enough he might still be at prayer.”

“ _Þak broðir_ ," she called out to him over her shoulder as she began to make her way through the beginnings of drifted snow to the steps leading up to the Great Hall doors.  There was a mild gnawing of anxious nerves in her middle, not certain if Martin’s first reaction to her return might be chilled or distant.  He had a petulantly stubborn habit of withdrawing into that at-arm’s-length shell when the world or people around him became unpleasant or painful, and she had tarried in Bruma after closing the minor Oblivion gate for nearly two full days before coming back. At the moment though, that feeling was overshadowed almost entirely by the strong realization, begun when the Temple had come in to her sight, of just how badly she had missed him.

Her Blade armor still clinked and rustled despite Lysa’s muffling of her footsteps on the stairs up to the Emperor’s chambers. She hoped to find Martin herself, before word of her return got to him through other channels.  At the top of the staircase, her expression fell slightly when she saw no Blade posted. She had been sure he wasn’t in the library, and her brows knit a moment, wondering if she’d somehow crossed paths and missed him. No, they never would have missed one another in the Great Hall.

There was a sharp, singular pang of guilt when she realized he must have gone beyond the Great Hall and to the Chapel Royal to pray that morning.  It was not something she had ever seen him do with her own eyes. Prayer was truly the only time he had to himself alone, and there couldn’t really be true privacy there.  How disturbed had his dreams again become? How badly had her delay in returning weighed down and worried him?

Perhaps with Old Life on this day, too many guilty memories haunted him. Tamping the feeling down, Lysa entered Martin’s room - which, with the exception of the last few days, had really turned into _their_ room.  She unbuckled and divested herself of her armor with practiced speed, chewing on her bottom lip and wondering for a moment if she ought to change into something a bit… prettier… than the bland, almost shapeless garments typically worn beneath the Akaviri style plate.  

\------------------------  
  
[](http://sta.sh/0uy9022tfsq)

    Brushing her hands over her midsection and fluffing out the layers of the skirt - _Gods,_ this thing had layers! - Lysa hesitated only a moment before going to open the door.  She remembered not that long ago, when she had first woken to see a choice of a lady’s dress next to her usual tunics and breeches.  Martin had never said anything outright about having them found, but the quick, nervously stolen glances he cast over his desk towards her when she picked it up to examine had told her all she needed know.  

Everyone could only assume they had been left behind by Emperor Uriel’s late wife.  Initially the thought had made Lysa shudder - not because of the common knowledge that Caula Voria had been a _wicked bitch_ of a woman, but because of the full and weighty implications of Martin… wanting to give these things… to _her._  It was perfectly plausible, being as distracted as he was, he hadn’t thought of the message that image of Lysa in what had been an Empress’ clothing could convey to others, but it would most certainly not be lost on the Blades.

So today she had donned the simplest dress of the lot, which was still far richer and more detailed than anything she’d really ever worn before. She thanked all the Gods that the pretentious pink sash fastened at the shoulder and waist had been very easily removed, or she’d have sooner gone into another Oblivion gate than wear it.  

The deep blue fabric was soft and still very beautiful.  The under dress and shift were made of raw silk, and embroidered with detailed flowering vines all along the seams, collar, and fitted sleeves where they passed the billowy bell sleeves of blue and decorated grey lace at the elbow. The skirts swirled around her legs and the sensation induced a little twirl to see them billow out.  By Kyne, even the underskirts were full of embroidered detail. There wasn’t a readily available looking glass that she could find, but for a short spell she felt almost giddy and childlike again.

Lysa peaked out of the door to see if anyone might spy her as she hurried towards the Great Hall, and the doors flanking the fireplace that would open up to the Chapel to the Nine behind it.  If she hadn’t felt pressed for time, she might have tried to fashion something of an adornment for her hair - no such accessories had been left behind by Uriel’s wife or any ladies in waiting.  That, and the dull ache in her scalp from having it all so tightly braided, led her to let the whole shower of red hang loose, with only the loosest pinnings at her temples to keep it from her eyes.

Gathering up small handfuls of the dress so as not to trip down the stairs - how long had it been since she’d worn a dress? Longer than she’d cared to think on - Lysa tip-toed down the steps in soft-soled leather slippers.  Before stepping off the last step onto the landing with the door opening to the Great Hall, she hesitated briefly.  Her heart was thumping quite loudly, and if there was half a visible blush on her face as she felt all over, she was likely as red as her own hair.  

_‘Oh for pity’s sake, you’re acting like a  simple-minded fool of a schoolgirl. The man’s already seen you naked, and on purpose no less! Get on with it!’_

Lysa’s own thoughts scolded her, and for good reason she thought as she straightened her shoulders, turned her lips upwards in a quiet smile and opened the door.  Only a few Blades were absent from the morning meal, whether sleeping from their vigils overnight, or like Roliand, already out on midshift rounds.  She could feel eyes catch and begin to turn to her, but she ignored them for the moment.

Her eyes immediately went to Martin’s usual table, which was still unoccupied.  Turning to the nearest Chapel door - there was a pair of them on either side of the Hall’s fireplace - she had taken only a few steps when the it opened from the inside.  Lysa froze in place, her heart hitting a little more loudly in her chest and she sucked in a breath.  Not every plan could always go perfectly after all. 

Baurus, ever present as his lord’s side, came out first.  Martin followed behind but did not see her immediately.  His head was down, short curtains of his dark hair obscuring most of his face as he continued to read the small prayer book in his hands.  Lysa’s smile broadened and her eyes pricked with small, unshed tears.  That either of her parents could see her now, having found someone who could coax from her soul such things as she’d never thought she could feel just by the sight of him.

_‘And an Emperor too. My, you do aim high my darling girl…’_ came a thought with the voice of her father unbidden into her mind.  

A brief tick in her brow and she mentally flicked the voice away.   _‘He could be a poor Morthali fishmonger and I would love him just as well...’_

Drawing up her shoulders, her fingers twisted with a touch of anxiousness in her skirts, waiting for Martin to look up.  Baraus saw her first, a big broad grin and a relieved laugh drawing more than just Martin’s attention.  

When her lover’s blue eyes lifted and met hers, that twinge of guilt pinched at her belly again.  Those dark circles had regressed in their severity, and his eyes had a tightness to them which she had come to recognize as after effects of his shedding tears.  Always so jealously private, Martin was.  He’d explained it before, the one time she got him to actually talk on the subject, as needing to give the people around him, serving, protecting, risking their lives… an unwavering symbol from which to draw hope.  If he were to falter, or display his shortcomings, what would that do to their courage?  

Martin’s lips parted in a soundless exclamation before breaking into a broad, gleeful smile, his eyes brightened. Lysa had been afraid he would be angry with her for how she’d left before. It seemed she was continually underestimating her place in his affections.  The book in his hands was put off to the side immediately as they moved towards each other, uncaring or oblivious of the eyes of everyone else on them.  

Lysa’s arms were thrown about his waist, and little mind was paid to the rousing, congratulatory cheer the rest of the Blades in the Hall gave as she felt his arms grasp around her shoulders tightly.  Hazel eyes slide shut as she buried her face in the crook of his neck and breathed deeply, feeling fingers from his hands slid into her hair and give a gentle pull.  She lifted her head just enough to look into his eyes.  The tips of their noses still brushed, and Martin’s hand cupped her jaw and ran a thumb over her cheekbone.  

“I missed you,” he said in a quiet whisper, running one flattened hand between her shoulder blades to rest firmly at the small of her back. The fingertips of his other ghosted over her brow, nose, and lips as if he were admiring something inordinately delicate as well as beautiful.

“And I you,” she replied, a bit more breathless than she had intended.  Those eyes… _His eyes_ … She knew she wasn’t the only one who fell under the irresistible, charismatic charm of him.  Perhaps it was something he inherited with his Septim blood.  As uncomfortable as it had used to make him - contemplating a future as Emperor of all Tamriel - even as a humble priest, he had worn the mantle of leadership well, with subtle gentility.

“I…” she began, opening her mouth to continue, when she was cut off by a swift, demanding kiss from Martin.  Her eyes widened only momentarily in surprise before her fingers dug in a little at the cloth covering his back, and she tilted her chin up to meet and return his affections with enthusiasm.  The second cheer from the gathered Knight Brothers and Sisters was thunderous.  Mugs were clinked, and pounding in time with fists on the heavy wood of the tables.  Toasts and well wishes were mixed and garbled in the din, and In two or three corners, shaking heads and laughing faces discreetly exchanged a few coins.  

When his grip on her relaxed and their lips parted, the two of them only now seemed to be aware of just how many eyes were on them.  Lysa laughed, and Martin’s face turned a distinct shade of red.  It was quite adorable, so she thought.  Taking a step back, she kept a grasp of his hand, and pulled him away from his usual ‘nest’ of books where the _Xarxes_ laid as well. 

He looked at her, and she shook her head.  “Not today, please? At least not so soon?"

Martin gave her a soft, barely there smile, and a nod as he followed her to the fast breaking table.  Thank the Nine for this woman.  She was as stubborn, willful, and proud as he ever was in his youth (or now for that matter), and she loved him.  Not his office, not his bloodline, or power… _him._  He had come to rely on her so much more than he admitted to anyone outside of his own mind.  Martin could not envision a course of events, or any force short of death, that would make a different woman his wife when this Crisis was over. Perhaps sooner, rather than later, he would work the strength up to say so to her.

\--------------------------------------

    As soon as the door slid shut behind them, and the click of the latch sounded, Lysa gasped as Martin’s hands quickly grabbed her waist and pulled her back against him with no small bit of force. Her back pressed against his chest, his hands grasping at her skirts to pull them up just enough.  She tilted her neck to the side as she felt his hot kisses work their way down from where he had been nuzzling behind her ear. She squealed when one of his nibbles bit a little harder than she’d been expecting. All movement on his part stopped and she could hear and feel his warm breath, ragged with need.  

“Did…  Did I hurt you?” he whispered, unsure.

“No,” she replied, laying a hand over his to guide it as it fumbled with making its way beneath her skirts and between her legs.  She gasped and let out a soft moan as his long, slightly calloused fingers found her folds, no small clothes to cover them. His sharp intake of breath and stiffening of his posture - among other things - was quickly followed by pressing one, and then two fingers inside her.  

Her knees felt weak, and she cried out softly into a fist as Martin twisted his fingers against particularly sensitive spots within her.  They had not been bedding together long as some might reckon it, but they were both eager students of one anothers’ body.

Martin chuckled, the sound low and rumbling in his chest.  He pressed a kiss to her ear as he withdrew his fingers, sensing the growing weakness in her knees, and frankly, having something in mind that required her on her back.  

“Go and lay down for me, my love?” he asked, silencing whatever it was she’d opened her mouth to say in turning to face him with a kiss.  Hazel eyes were wide and dilated, and she bit on her bottom lip and nodded, stepping backwards to sit on the fresh linens.  

Martin had already begun to discard the outer portion of his robe, leaving only the loose, wrapped pants behind.  He shook his head and tsked when he saw her fingers tugging at the lacing at the back of her dress.  Lysa smiled mischievously and laid back, but propped herself on her elbows to keep her eyes on him, as he moved towards her with a clearly aroused edge to his expression. Curiosity shifted to excitement and understanding when he knelt at the bedside, grasping her hips and yanking her to just the right spot near the edge.  

His eyes followed his hands as they touched her ankles first, reverent in their observance.  They traveled up, pushing skirt and under dress with them. He nearly smirked as he felt the laces of her soft, split-soled shoes woven in a criss-cross up her calves. Something about the texture - a tiny thing - felt different and thereby exciting.  Her body was an infuriatingly desirous mixture of a soft, curved woman, and a battle hardened fighter.  It embarrassed him to give words to it, even in his own mind, how fiercely his loins had become ready and wanting when he saw her dressed as she was - as the high and noble lady he knew her to be, by action and heart.

Lysa for her part, kept herself up on one elbow, and let her fingers run through and over the bits of his hair she could reach.  They were getting long again, she mused, but she preferred it that way.  When the mass of skirt layers were all bunched up about her waist, she shivered and flushed when Martin nudged her legs apart, and began to kiss along the skin of her inner thighs.  Sometimes it frustrated her, how slowly he would love her - almost timidly - as if she were made of glass and might break under the uninhibited weight of his attentions.  

Her head tossed back with a moan and her hair splayed, as if he’d caught her off guard with his tongue licking and swirling around her pearled bundle of nerves, those two strong fingers pressing deep into her again.  In truth he was simply that skilled. One slippered, laced leg draped over his shoulder, the other hooked around and pressed into his bare back.   

“Martin… _já… góðr..._ “ she moaned breathlessly, halfway shrieking, _“..óð_!” when he thrust his fingers in with more strength and swiftness, groaning into her dripping sex when she expressed the sounds of her pleasure in that old, ancient Nordic tongue.  He had never heard it wrested from her lips this way before, and it excited him.  

He could feel the tell tale tremor in her legs, indicating her peak was rising quickly.  The question of bringing her to completion first, before indulging in his own satisfaction had barely entered his mind before his painfully needy arousal made the decision for him.  Standing only long enough to rid himself of his pants and smalls was still enough time for Lysa’s eyes to snap open, sit up and start spitting out a string of Nordic curses. Martin shoved her by the shoulders back down onto the bed, pinning her hands above her head, and grinding his hips against hers as he pushed inside her. 

Lysa’s eyelids fluttered and her words faded out into a lusty sigh.  Martin’s arms trembled just a bit, and he chuckled as he bent his head to kiss behind her ears, down her neck, licking softly at the divot at the base of her neck.  “Did you just say something about the Nibenay?”

She whimpered, pressing her cheek against his hair, droplets of sweat beginning to appear on her face and pool between her breasts.  “I said,” she began, pausing, distracted by a roll of their hips together.  

Martin stilled, and teasingly tilted his head to the side with an arched brow.  “Hmmm?”

Her eyes narrowed, looking needy and peevish at the same time. Bloody imp of a royal bastard.  “I said…” she began again, locking her ankles together around his backside and pressing them firmly into his buttocks. “That by the old ways of my fathers, if you don’t finish what you started, I’m going to throw you this instant, stark naked, out into the Nibenay.”

He looked up through a short, mussed curtain of brown hair with those damned blue eyes of his.  Smiling sweetly, He kissed the tops of her breasts, still bound up and heaving in her dress and whispered.  “As you wish…”

\---------------------------

    Baurus grimaced slightly, as the perpetual chorus of moans, groans, sighs, and shrieks of the Emperor and Lysa’s fervent love making reached a pitch that made his ears itch.  Glancing over at his fellow guard, Roliand could only chuckle and offer a shrug of his shoulders. Had to keep it quiet on their side of the door after all.  The Emperor he knew, would just feel embarrassed or act awkwardly if they were obvious about their presence. Lysa on the other hand - well, he didn’t put it past her to enact some of the rather cruel tortures on them that he’d overheard her threatening their Majesty with in a language the Emperor clearly didn’t understand.

Eventually Baurus cracked a smile of his own. “I was starting to wonder how long those two would take to stop trying to hide it, you know?” he said in a low voice.

Roliand leaned back against the narrow space between the door frame and the hall window and crossing his arms over his chest.  “Lose in the wager pool did you?”

The Redguard rolled his eyes.  “I’d never degrade the image of the Emperor by betting on who he takes, or when for bed-mates, or who he chooses to tell about it.”

Roliand tilted his head down and looked at the Redguard pointedly. “To Cyrus, or Jena?”

Baraus huffed and sighed.  “Jena.” he said with a hint of petulance before breaking the expression and laughing very softly.  “I was worried about him there, for a while.  The Emperor, I mean.”

Roliand nodded, his face pensive, but not tight or worried.  “It’s better for him, now, but especially later, to have a Lady who knows, respects, and loves him for ‘is own sake.”

“What do you mean?” Baurus asked quickly, surprised the Nord felt comfortable speaking so plainly.  Truthfully he knew, or could easily guess at the answer.  However relatively short a time, while Baurus had served in Uriel VII’s personal guard, he had witnessed the sickening game of false friendship and politics with the Emperor’s person.  Even at that age, his sons’ ages and their… less than attractive dispositions… There was still endless fawning for their attentions and even affections, for no sincere reason beyond the office and inheritance they held by birth.   

Roliand smiled as he let his train of thought play out, digging lightly at a knot in the floorboard with his boot tip.  “We have all the respect in the world for the Septims up North… Just haven’t forgotten how they let their undisciplined, uncontrolled second sons and daughters out on their own with Skyrim as a playground, and we ended up with an Empire wide Civil War, and a madman on the Throne to make Sheogorath proud,” he paused, taking in the not-disbelieving, but still scandalized look on Baraus’ face.  “The Empire will be well served with a strong Nord woman beside him. Divines know he’s going to need it, reigning in this Elder Council.”

Shifting from one foot to another for a series of uncomfortable moments, Baurus looked deep in thought.  Eventually Roliand clapped him on the shoulder.  “Well, I’m off for a bit and then bed before the festivities tonight.  You’ll be there right?”

The Redguard opened his mouth before a combined cacophony of cries and moans interrupted him, and indicated the ending of this particular royal romp. Roliand stuffed a laugh behind his grin. 

Baraus tilted his head back towards the door.  “If they are.”

\-----------------------------------  
  
[](http://sta.sh/01rkyi694cuj)  
  


    With the closing of the gate at Bruma, and a few others nearby thanks to Lysa’s continued instruction on how to do so wherever she traveled, the resulting lull in activity proved serendipitous in its timing.  The day’s duties drew to an earlier close than usual, as many of the Temple’s denizens, sworn swords and servants alike, gathered for the evening feast. Clean, heavy evergreen boughs were brought in to decorate the pillars and columns in the Great Hall, the food and fare laid out, while not obscene or ostentatious by any means, was still richer than the usual.  

In their chambers, Lysa made a face at her dress in the looking glass that had been brought in at some point during the day.  She didn’t care for yellow.  It made her look sickly she thought, but it appeared to have been a favorite color of the late Empress Caula’s.  She softened her expression and sighed when she glanced and saw Martin over her shoulder.  

His eyes were gentle, and his smile soft, though a touch muted by disappointment.  “You don’t like it?” he asked with a whisper, pulling aside her hair to nuzzle her neck behind her ear.  

“S’too yellow,” she muttered, reaching to pull his hands around her front and embrace her from behind.  Leaning her head back a bit on his shoulder she sighed.  “Don’t like yellow…”

Martin sighed, feigning weariness and frustration.  “Well alright,” he began with a needling, teasing tone.  “If you insist on wearing the blue dress that the entire county by now knows you’ve been ravished in, then by all means, wear it.”

He bit his lip to hold back his giggling… _giggling…_ when she stiffened in his arms, and her face turned interesting colors.  Turning her around, he pecked each of her hot cheeks, and tilted up her chin with a bent finger to kiss her lips.  

“You are astoundingly beautiful, Lysa.”

She sighed, and returned his light kiss.  “Even in yellow?”

Martin nodded solemnly, speaking in a serious tone except for a lilt at the end that betrayed his humor.  “Even in yellow.  Besides, if you insist I start wearing something outside of my priestly robes more in line with my ‘station’ on this particular occasion, then by Akatosh, you will join me in that discomfort.”

Her expression screwed a bit unpleasantly, but she merely stuck the tip of her tongue out at him in one last defiance. Before he could retaliate - and perhaps rob the loyal Blades the presence of their Emperor and his Lady love at dinner after all - the Grandmaster had rapped on the door to announce his presence. 

The Blades all stood in formal greeting when they entered, Martin and Lysa’s fingers twined firmly together.  She smiled, but somewhere in her heart, she knew there was no avoiding a change in how the Blades, her friends even, would view and treat her now.  The sadness passed soon enough as they all took their seats.  Martin offered a simple blessing at the start - ever a Priest before Emperor.  This was a night for memory and reflection, and some regions of the world made it a very sombre, grim occasion.  Not here though - not entirely.

As the drink flowed, stories were told and some songs even sung.  Lysa and Martin smiled and laughed along with the rest.  Remembrance was an act that could be as celebratory as it was memorial.  A few of the Knight Brothers and Sisters even had the stray instrument laying about, and all those too had been pressed into his Majesty’s service, a drum here, lute there...  Lysa clapped in delight - Roliand had never told her he played the fiddle!

Evening wore on, and the initial raucous noise began to wane.  Men and women took turns standing in front of the fireplace, telling stories about great heroes among their fallen brothers and sisters, tilting up a drink to the hanging swords in toast.  

It was quiet for a longer pause than had yet been that night. Lysa looked to Martin curiously, and he leaned to his right to whisper no doubt a similar question to Jauffre.  Squeezing her hand, he spoke, “Yes my lady, you and I will leave first it seems.”

Lysa’s lips pursed in sudden and deep thought.  As much as she loved her Shield Brothers and Sisters, as much as she loved and would come to love this land for Martin’s sake, she was still sick for home.  Her own traditions would have had her singing prayers to Kyne to guide souls to an honored rest in Sovngarde who were not carried there on her very breast. Before he could inquire if she were alright, Lysa pulled his hand up and kissed the back of it.  

“Might I beg a small indulgence first?”

“Certainly, Lysa, but what…?”

Pouring her cup full, Lysa stood, and the rest of the Hall with her.  Quietly, and as stately as she could manage, she walked from her seat to the spot at the Hall’s Hearth.  Pausing only to stop by Roliand, she asked him something in their shared native language.  He nodded in assent, and picked up his fiddle.  

She glanced over her shoulders at everyone else, before turning her eyes up to the swords of the fallen, hanging around them.  If she could not perform this duty for her people by blood, perhaps at least she could help bring some sort of guidance and peace to any who needed it among the people she had chosen.

_[Of all the money that e'er I had...](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N8xeZ0RqmP8)   
_ _I spent it in good company…  
_ _And all the harm, that e’er I’ve done…  
_ _Alas! It was to none but me…_

Her voice filled the hall, the others with heads bowed in reverent silence.  Only the mournful sound of Roliand’s fiddle joined her song. 

_And all I’ve done, for want of wit…  
T_ _o memory now, I can’t recall…  
_ _So fill to me, the parting glass…  
_ _Goodnight, and joy be with you all…_

_Oh, all the comrades that e’er I had,  
I am sorry for their going away…  
And all the sweethearts, that e'er I've loved,  
I'd wish them one more day to stay..._   
  
_But since it falls unto my lot,  
That I should rise and you should not…  
_ _I’ll gently rise and softly call,  
_ _Goodnight and joy be with you all…_

Her gaze was still steady on the memorial swords.  This was to honor them.  But a tugging at her heart told her to not be surprised if Martin’s eyes were misted with tears.  Knowing what she knew of his past, having seen his pain as he recounted small slivers of it here and there with utmost difficulty, she conceded it was for him to hear as well.

As she approached the final refrain, she lifted her glass as in toast, and shivered when she heard a chorus of everyone else’s voice join her own.  
  
 _Goodnight and joy be with you all..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll reorder the chapters later to include a few important scenes and events that happen between the first chapter and this one.


	3. Battle of Bruma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Great Gate of Oblivion has been closed, and the Battle of Bruma won. But not all have survived unscathed. A brief snapshot of the battle's aftermath where secrecy on the part of Lysa Silverhawk and the Grandmaster of the Blades to protect Martin from undue burden beforehand come back to bite them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! This idea grabbed me out of nowhere. It has not been beta-d or proofread, so apologies if there are holes or bad grammar.

Thick billows of smoke roiled up from the ground where the Great Gate of Oblivion had stood until only moments before. A haze of ash and sulfur still hung in the air, burning the eyes and lungs of the men and women left alive in the battle’s wake.

There was a pause then - a space between the moment of victory and the realization of it. 

Lysa lay sprawled on the ground, the Great Sigil Stone just beyond her outstretched hand where it had tumbled from her grasp as the shockwave of the Gate’s collapse threw her down into the earth.

\----

Martin’s knees skidded in the dirt as he dropped down next to her. Lysa’s chest heaved with harsh, wrenching coughs and rasping breath. Her vain efforts to push herself up enough to lift her face from the ground were rendered unnecessary.

Martin turned her on her back, and scooped her up in his arms to cradle her against his chest.

The sound of his voice, urgent and panicked, was muted and garbled in her ears. Lysa’s eyes blinked rapidly in vain effort to focus her vision. 

“Spi...Spiddal… spiddal sti-” she managed to gasp out before being seized by a fit of convulsions, coughs and gasps for air that sounded dangerously agonal. Urgency left no room in Martin’s mind yet for panic and fear. Ripping a flask from his side with his free hand, he bit roughly on the cork and spit it out. With one arm still cradling her shoulders, he brought the dram to her lips. It was a crude draught - brewed in haste before the battle - meant to bolster one's energy and endurance on the field. 

But as any veteran knew, mage and warrior alike, there was a strong expectorating side effect. The excess of fluid could be drained later, but quick wetting and draining of the membranes would trap the daedric pollen in her lungs, preventing further harm to Lysa’s body. 

No sooner had it touched her lips than she sputtered and spat. She flailed a hand clumsily at Martin’s and knocked the bottle to the ground.

_ ‘No!’  _

Her lips formed the word repeatedly though no intelligible sound came out.

Martin gazed at her with bewilderment. He had not even tipped it yet to get any amount onto her tongue. She could only have tasted what he was offering from the residue on the bottle’s mouth.

“Lysa,” he said dumbfounded, with a cracking voice. Dread and panic were swelling up quickly from his gut. The abrupt derailment of his focus had forced the control of it to crumble.

“Pennyroyal and Nightshade.”

Martin startled, eyes whipping up and sideways to the sound of a weary and graveled voice in his ear.

Joffre’s face was drawn and grave as he took a knee beside his Lord. He studied Lysa intently. Hazel eyes and brown locked and passed some unspoken understanding.

“That draught has pennyroyal and nightshade in it,” the aging Blade said again in explanation to Martin’s wordless confusion. His eyes stayed on Lysa’s face as he opened and offered a different sort of dram. She trembled and shook violently, fighting the overwhelming urge to hack and cough, lest she retch and choke on her own emesis.

“This will calm the spasms at least,” Joffre continued as he bade her to drink. “Keep them from drawing the poison deeper into the lungs.”

 

_ What did that matter?! _ Martin’s thoughts screamed and ranted loudly in his head.

The only dangers those herbs could pose were to the very young or the unb--

 

Martin’s abrupt change in expression reflected the hard snap of sudden realization. A frigid wash over his insides, burning in the guts, the rush of blood singing in his ears… there were no words to entirely capture what this revelation - and the implications of the circumstances - were doing to him.

Martin fixed the Grandmaster with a stare the old man could feel in his bones. Looking to his Lord, he saw a stern, disimpassioned face that showed not one hint of emotion. It was a disturbing and empty expression. 

But where Martin’s face betrayed nothing, his  _ eyes _ told everything. They burned with accusation and a ground shaking fury, cold and powerful.

_ Dragons are dangerous when aroused… _

The sentiment held true for their anger as much or more than their passions.

Such was it with Martin now, that for a moment too fleeting to register in his conscious mind, Joffre feared for his life.

They spoke no words. It would have been a waste on the older man’s part to try. Instead, with a fall of his gaze and a subtle, deferential tilt of his head, Joffre both acknowledged his share of guilt and accepted the consequences that were sure to follow - whatever they might be.

A pained whimper and gurgling breath from the woman between them sapped the greater part of the fury in Martin’s eyes. They lingered on Joffre for only a moment longer before the Emperor swept his free arm behind Lysa’s knees and hauled her up as he got to his feet and bellowed for Baurus and the others.

The message had been quite clear:

_ ‘I will deal with you later.’ _

 

Divines save the Grandmaster of the Blades. Nothing short of their direct intervention would shield him (or anyone else for that matter) from Martin’s wrath if this caused lasting harm came to Lysa Silverhawk or the nascent life she carried.

**Author's Note:**

> LYK OMG HOLY CRAP! This muse came out of nowhere and beat me over the head with bricks until I finished it at 4AM that morning. Anyway... :-) I present you with my first piece of Martin Septim and Lysa Silver-Hawk love! I had originally (again, rebellious muses ruin plans) intended for all of what we'd ever find out about them told in relevant flashbacks interspersed with the rest of the Appointed Time series. As you can see, they had different ideas.
> 
> So yeah... night terrors suck major A. And as with certain PTSD episodes, Autism fits, and/or night terrors, the deep pressure, full body hug technique is often employed as a calming mechanism.


End file.
